Into the Night
by NutsandVolts
Summary: "What else can I do?" Gale asks softly, his breath lightly ruffling Beetee's hair. The sentence falls from Beetee's lips before he can stop it. "You could stay here." But by that time, Gale is gone. And if he's honest with himself, Beetee expected nothing less. [[Takes place during Mockingjay and beyond. Preliminary Gale/Katniss, eventual Gale/Beetee. Rating subject to change.]]
1. Chapter I

_**A/N:** Here it is, the first chapter of the Beegale fic I've been babbling about! :') Please note that the rating is absolutely subject to change; in fact, I plan for it to go up in later chapters, once we're post-Mockingjay, for smut and other reasons. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Enjoy! And special thanks to **christinefuckingchapel** on Tumblr for beta-ing. :)_

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Gale Hawthorne is not happy.

This in and of itself is not an unusual thing. Stubborn and hotheaded as he is, Gale often succumbs to fits of temper or brooding. Today, however, is different; his displeasure is directed at none other than Katniss Everdeen, his closest friend. The object of his affections. And, as fate would have it, the symbol of Panem's rebellion. A symbol such as her holds tremendous power over the districts, but possesses very little political affluence. Katniss, however, seems to be having a difficult time coming to terms with this. Gale only wants to make her see.

Trouble is, Katniss can be stubborn, too.

"You're still angry," he tells her as they descend in the elevator to Special Defense.

"And you're still not sorry." Lips pursed. Eyes narrowed. Arms folded and stance rigid, making her seem much larger than her actually small stature. Yes, this is going to be difficult.

"I still stand by what I said," Gale tries, hoping to sound fair, impartial. Neither is his strong suit. "Do you want me to lie about it?"

"No, I want you to rethink it and come up with the right opinion," Katniss snaps.

Gale laughs, if only because her reply startles him. Two years ago, she'd have never said such a thing; in fact, two years ago, they'd never been in an argument over something like Katniss being too outspoken. He'd be encouraging her, wholly, absolutely. Shouldn't be doing that now? Part of him, the part swayed most by the frosty annoyance in her gaze as she looked away, tells him that he should…but doing so might get him on the wrong side of President Coin, the leader of the rebellion. And aren't those on the wrong side of the rebellion practically aligned with those who want to crush it? Surely not; Katniss is as rebel as rebel could be…and yet…

Gale brings a hand to his head. Things are so complicated now. Things have changed—_she's_ changed. Though, if he's honest, he's changed as well.

"Come on." Katniss's hand on his wrist forces Gale out of his reverie, and together, the pair weaves through the maze that is Special Defense. Or, at least, Katniss weaves. Gale simply allows her to pull him along as if he's a child with a rather short attention span. He can't help himself; the entire complex of District 13 has awed him from the start, bit compared to this, he's been shown nothing. In every direction halls branch out, leading to a variety of different rooms: computer labs, research labs, storage rooms, testing ranges. All around, scientists with white coats over their gray District 13 uniforms bustle, noses in the air. The atmosphere of intelligence weighs heavily upon him, and Gale can't refute it; he's impressed.

Katniss finally taps someone, successfully gaining his attention. "We're looking for Beetee," she says. "Have you seen him?"

The man turns his haughty glance his way. Gale sets his jaw and glares right back.

"Continue down this hallway until you reach the northernmost intersection. Take two rights and you'll reach a window. There you'll find your friend," the man says coldly. He averts his gaze and prepares to walk away, muttering, "Spends all of his time in there, the nut…"

Unfortunately for him, Katniss catches this comment. She takes a step forward, her eyes narrowed into slits; Gale sees her hands clench slowly into fists. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

The man looks back to her, clearly unconcerned. "I said _you're welcome_."

"We didn't say _thank you_," Gale retorts.

Affronted, the man stalks off. "Asshole," Katniss mutters as they continue on as per his instructions.

"World's full of 'em," Gale responds. He puts a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry about it."

Both are quiet for a moment. Then, with a touch of uncertainty, Gale asks, "So…he _was _wrong? Beetee, he's not…?"

"A nut? Oh, no, no," says Katniss. Gale relaxes slightly. "Just…a little odd."

"Meaning…?"

"You'll see when you meet him."

Soon after this, the pair approaches the window. Gale hears Katniss stifle a gasp to his left, and he can't blame her. Within the room lies a lush, green meadow, scattered with brilliant blossoms and buzzing with wildlife. Slowly, the two enter the room; Katniss's face reflects Gale's disbelief that such a calm, picturesque place could exist in the utilitarian compound of 13.

"Aren't they magnificent?"

Gale jumps in surprise; for a moment, it slipped his mind that Beetee would be in here. Gale turns to study him; he's only seen the man on a television screen before now. It only takes one look for him to live up to Katniss's description of odd. Dark, flyaway hair, almond-shaped eyes the color of coal. Crooked, wire-framed glasses. Skin several shades too pale. Yes, he gives off an air of eccentricity that is only heightened by his grin and the excitement in his voice. Yet as he does—"Forward and backward flight, and speeds up to sixty miles per hour," he tells Katniss, who listens with an amused smile—Gale hears something else in his voice. Something deep and intelligent, suggesting that Beetee is someone wise, someone to trust. The admiration in Katniss's eyes as she speaks with him certainly testifies to that. Gale edges closer to where she stands by Beetee's wheelchair to catch their conversation.

"Doubt I could manage them, Beetee," Katniss says with a small laugh.

"Here one second, gone the next," Beetee answers. His voice trails as he cast his gaze about, and only then does Gale notice the birds that whir over their heads; hummingbirds, by the sight of them, which, as Gale thinks of their guide's words, makes sense. Returning his eyes to Katniss, Beetee asks, "Can you bring a hummingbird down with an arrow?"

"I've never tried. Not much meat on them," says Katniss.

"No," Beetee agrees. "And you're not one to kill for sport. I bet they'd be hard to shoot, though…"

"You could snare them, maybe," Gale suggests. Beetee looks to him in mild surprise, as if he's just realized he's here. "Take a net with a very fine mesh. Enclose an area and leave a mouth of a couple square feet. Bait the inside with nectar flowers. While they're feeding, snap the mouth shut. They'd fly away from the noise but only encounter the far side of the net."

Now he has Beetee's attention. "Would that work?"

"I don't know," Gale answers with a shrug. "Just an idea. They might outsmart it."

"They might," Beetee agrees softly. Gale can almost see the gears of his brain turning, testing out Gale's plan, searching for the flaws and unexpectedly coming up with none. He's impressed. Gale smiles slightly with pride. "But you're playing on their natural instincts to flee danger," says Beetee. "Thinking like your prey…that's where you find their vulnerabilities."

A short silence envelops the two whilst they size each other up. Interest shines in Beetee's dark eyes, as they do in Gale's gray ones; Beetee's lips part to speak again when Katniss suddenly blurts, "Beetee, Plutarch said you had something for me."

"Right," says Beetee as he returns his gaze to her. "I do. Your new bow." Katniss's eyes light up. Beetee fiddles with the hand control on his wheelchair and wheels out of the room; Katniss and Gale follow suit.

"How's your back?" asks Katniss as they maneuver through the compound.

"Fine. I can walk a little now. It's just that I tire so quickly. It's easier for me to get around this way," Beetee answers. He changes the subject before they can ask more. "How's Finnick doing?"

Gale hasn't seen much of Finnick Odair since he, Katniss, and Beetee were rescued from the Quarter Quell arena, but from what he _has_ seen, there's a lot more to his problem than having trouble concentrating. Gale keeps this to himself, though from his wry smile, he figures Beetee already knows.

"Concentration problems, eh?" Beetee's brow creases with sympathy. "If you knew what Finnick's been through the last few years, you'd know how remarkable it is he's still with us at all. Tell him I've been working on a new trident for him, though, will you? Something to distract him a little."

"Of course." Katniss nods.

The conversation diminishes as the trio reaches the doorway to Special Weaponry. Four guards stand before it, armed with a collection of guns and gadgetry so immense, Gale wonders how they can walk. The lead, a woman about half Gale's height but twice his girth, steps forward with a scanner and orders them each to extend their right arms, palm up, to check the violet tattoos printed there.

But this is just the first step. Once their schedules are verified, they undergo a variety of other scans, including fingerprint, retinal, and DNA tests, and then have to step through highly sensitive metal detectors. Only Beetee seems used to the procedure; Gale and Katniss frequently exchange looks of disbelief, especially when the entire process is repeated just sixty feet later.

Finally, the doors to the armory are opened and Gale, Katniss, and Beetee are allowed to enter. What lies within takes both Gale's and Katniss's breath away. District 13's arsenal is lined extensively with any and all weapons imaginable: guns, bows, bombs, even tanks and launchers. If it can take a life, or quite possibly decimate an entire population, Gale suspects it exists in this room.

"Of course, the Airborne Division is housed separately," Beetee remarks idly.

"Of course," Katniss echoes. She doesn't notice Beetee's responding smirk, but Gale does. However, it doesn't upset him as much as he feels it should.

Beetee continues to lead them through the armory. Occasionally, he comments on the structure or function of the equipment they pass, but Gale tunes him out before long and simply begins to fawn over the sleek, complex machinery. When they reach a wall of militaristic archery weapons, the admiration in his eyes becomes almost devout, though he doesn't dare touch a thing until he hears Beetee chime in with "Gale, maybe you'd like to try out a few of these."

Gale's eyes widen slightly. "Seriously?"

"You'll be issued a gun eventually for battle, of course," he answers. "But if you appear as part of Katniss's team in the propos, one of these would look a little…showier." His lips turn up at the corners. "I thought you might like to find one that suits you."

"Yeah," says Gale. "I would."

After eying the collection carefully, Gale selects a heavily mechanized bow painted mahogany. Though sturdy, it fits snugly on his shoulder. He points it around the room, peering through the scope, and Katniss raises her eyebrows. "That doesn't seem very fair to the deer," she says.

"Wouldn't be using it on deer, would I?" Gale responds.

Her eyes become slits. Beetee, obviously sensing the tension, states, "I'll be right back." He pushes a code into a panel, which opens a doorway, and disappears into it. Once he's gone, Katniss turns to Gale, her brow lined with disapproval.

"So, it'd be easy for you?" she says. Her voice is caustic. "Using that on people?"

Gale removes the bow from his shoulder. "I didn't say that. But if I'd had a weapon that could've stopped what I saw happen in Twelve…if I'd had a weapon that could have kept you out of the arena…I'd have used it," he tells her. He speaks sincerely, but apart from that, his voice is empty of emotion. The words may startle her, but to Gale, they're just fact. He would have done whatever he had to to keep Katniss safe. He still would. In a heartbeat. It pains him every day that he never got the opportunity, and—though he knows she'd hate it—the thought that he may soon get the chance to make up for it is one of the few that sustains him.

"Me, too," says Katniss softly.

She won't look him in the eye, as if she doesn't want to accept that his words are true, and silence overtakes them. It's a chasm filled with words unspoken. Only Beetee breaks it when he returns with a long, rectangular black case positioned awkwardly between his footrest and his shoulder. Gale approaches, but Beetee waves him off impatiently before he can assist him and extends the case toward Katniss. She eyes it curiously. "For you," says Beetee.

Gingerly, Katniss takes the case from him and rests it on the floor. Gale drifts to Beetee's side as she unlatches and opens it. Her expression morphs from curiosity to amazement, and Beetee's becomes pure exuberance.

"Oh," whispers Katniss.

The moment she lifts it into Gale's line of sight, he understands her awe. The bow is of sleek black ebony, slim and elegant in design; somehow, Gale can tell that it feels lighter than air in Katniss's hands, and when she holds it at just the right angle, the image of a bird poised for flight materializes in his mind. Katniss holds it close, almost cradling it against her face, and after a moment, her eyes widen. "What's it doing?" she asks, her voice still almost a whisper.

Beetee beams. "Saying hello. It heard your voice."

"It recognizes my voice?" asks Katniss in shock.

"_Only _your voice," he corrects her. "You see, they wanted me to design a bow based purely on looks. As part of your costume, you know? But I kept thinking, _What a waste_. I mean, what if you _do _need it sometime? As more than a fashion accessory? So I left the outside simple, and left the inside to my imagination. Best explained in practice, though." Beetee straightens from where he had been leaning forward. "Want to try those out?"

Katniss readily agrees. Gale falls into step beside Beetee's chair as they make their way to a prepared testing range; Beetee's eyes are still very bright, but now, Gale notices, like he hasn't smiled this much in a very long time.

Soon enough, the trio reaches the range, where Beetee's specialized arrows prove to be just as extraordinary as his bow. He presents a multitude of different types, each identifiable by a brightly colored shaft: red for incendiary, blue for razor-sharp, violet for explosive. Gale watches with a small, proud smile on his lips as Katniss fires each arrow with ease into the targets provided. When she leaves, still smiling broadly, he stays behind to help Beetee clean up; they do so in casual silence before Beetee speaks. "Nice girl, Katniss," he remarks. "I like her spirit. Her fire. It's…refreshing."

"Yeah," says Gale. "She's great." He's quiet for a moment. "I don't see why they feel to change everything about her," he adds, his voice laced lightly with bitterness. "For the propos and whatnot. Seems a bit redundant to me."

"It's all for television purposes, Gale," Beetee assures him. He wheels out of the room; Gale follows. "Yes, she's spirited, brave, admirable for a number of reasons, but you have to admit that in terms of charisma she's a bit…lacking." Gale wants to refute this, as it's second nature for him to come to Katniss's defense, but, really, he knows it's true. "So they'll take her face and use it as a mouthpiece to send out their message. Voilà."

"It still doesn't seem right to me," Gale insists. "I mean, you saw her when she was in here earlier, all made-up and stuff. That isn't her. It's so…false. I don't like it."

"I never said I did," Beetee says. "Merely conveying information. I agree with you, Gale. She should be left alone, for the most part. But Plutarch insists, and at the end of the day, it's his call." He shrugs. "He knows more about television than we do, anyway."

"I still don't like it," Gale repeats, as if saying so over and over again will correct it. Beetee smiles thinly.

"I know you don't. I didn't think you would, especially since you're so close to her. The bond of blood and all that."

This perplexes Gale until he realizes Beetee must be under the assumption that he and Katniss are cousins, like much of Panem. "Oh, no, Beetee, we're not—"

"Related," Beetee finishes. His smile broadens slightly, but it becomes wryer as it does. "I suspected as much."

They enter a small workroom neatly cluttered with computers, blueprints, tools and pencils. "How did you know?" asks Gale, genuinely curious. After all, he and Katniss look enough alike, with their matching hair, eyes, and skin. It shouldn't be too obvious to anyone that their supposed relatedness is a ruse.

To his surprise, Beetee lets out a peal of laughter. "No one looks at their cousin in that way, Gale," he says. Gale blinks. "Or, at least, no one _should _look at their cousin in that way. That goes for both of you. It was a clever trick, though. Believable enough."

He wheels over to the worktable and parks his wheelchair perpendicularly to its attached bench. "But enough about Katniss," he says, lacing his fingers and resting his chin on them. He eyes Gale with the same interest he did in the hummingbird observatory. "Let's talk about you."

"Me?" Gale repeats.

"Yes." Beetee smiles. "You may not have noticed, but I was quite impressed with your thinking earlier."

"I noticed."

"Really?" He raises an eyebrow. Then, his expression grows sheepish. "That obvious, eh?"

"I don't think so," Gale says. "It's just…to me, I guess…I don't know, you're just easy to read."

Beetee watches in silence for a moment. "Well, I can't say I hear that too often," he tells Gale. He pauses again, ruminating over the fact, and then his smile returns. "But I suppose it does make things easier."

"What do you mean?" says Gale.

Beetee covers Gale's hand with his own, looking up at him keenly. "I like you," he says. "I like the way you think. You know…" Beetee withdraws his hand to set his chin on it once more. "It's a lot of work they've given me. I'm sure I can manage it on my own, but…I could use a little help."

Gale raises an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"Does it seem otherwise?" Beetee chuckles. "Yes, seriously. If you can work it into your schedule, of course. And if you don't object."

"No, no, of course I don't object," Gale answers quickly. "I'd love to. Whatever I can do to help, I'll do it."

Beetee beams. "Brilliant. So, um…I'll talk with Plutarch, see if he can speak with President Coin about it, and until then…" He tilts his head back toward Gale, then pats the bench beside his chair. "Well, I don't see the harm. Would you like to get started?"

"Now?" says Gale, his eyes widening slightly. Beetee nods happily. "Um…sure, I guess. Sure."

"Excellent," says Beetee. Gale meets his bright-eyed gaze, and he can't help it; a small smile forms on his mouth, too. He seats himself on the bench and pulls a page of blueprints on the table toward him.

"So, what have you got so far?"


	2. Chapter II

_**A/N: **__Ta-da! Chapter II! :) Tha__nks to __**ImaginationStation00 **__for reviewing and, again, the lovely __**christinefuckingchapel **__(aka Breanna) for beta-ing. You two rock. :) Enjoy the chapter and all the Beetee in it, 'cause there's _lots _of Beetee in this chapter (because Beetee is the literal best your argument is invalid)._

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"Was it really that bad?" Beetee asks through a mouthful of grain.

Plutarch, too consumed in his own woes to comment on Beetee's abysmal manners, moans into his hands. "Yes," he answers. "It was terrible. A complete train wreck! How that girl has managed to survive the cameras all this time, I'll never know..."

Beetee pours more of his milk into his bowl and stirs the mixture with his spoon. The hot grain that is District 13's standard for breakfast has a bland, almost bitter flavor, but with milk added, it isn't too bad—though if left to sit for too long, it becomes a kind of liquid cement. As Beetee takes another bite, Plutarch narrows his eyes at him. "You know, you really shouldn't be eating in here," he says.

This time, Beetee swallows before he speaks. "I'm hungry," he replies. "Besides, aren't you the one insisting I don't eat enough?"

"Yes. But when I said that, I meant to suggest that you venture more often to the dining hall, rather than have your meals delivered to you in your workshop," Plutarch says irritably.

Beetee shakes his head. "Too many people."

"A little human interaction would do you good, Beetee. You spend all of your time down here. You've become quite asocial."

Sensing the underlying concern in Plutarch's voice, Beetee says, "Hardly. I simply prefer to keep to myself. I always have. And you know the president doesn't object, so long as I accomplish what she asks of me in good time."

Plutarch opens his mouth to protest, but the device on his wrist interrupts him with a series of shrill beeps. He glances down at the communicuff and scowls at its message. "Oh, joy," he mutters.

"What is it?" asks Beetee, though he pays Plutarch little attention. Instead, he uses his spoon to violently stab at his food, hoping to de-solidify it. Plutarch's next words stall his efforts.

"We're due in Command." He rises, and Beetee looks up from his bowl.

"Me as well?"

"Indeed," Plutarch says. "Shall I take you, or…?"

"No, no, I'll manage," Beetee tells him. Despite this, Plutarch tries to grip the handles behind his wheelchair; Beetee waves him off. "I think I'd like to finish this first," he insists. "Go on ahead; I'll catch up."

Plutarch nods and leaves. Beetee returns to his breakfast. After a few more minutes, however, it becomes clear that it won't be getting any more edible, so he simply abandons it on the worktable and wheels out of the workroom. He's just exited Special Defense when Finnick suddenly enters his path. Beetee stops his chair just before he tramples him, but not before Finnick's foot gets caught under one of the wheels. Though it must be very painful, Finnick doesn't scream; however, he does let out a rather colorful string of profanity as he backs away from the chair.

"I am so sorry!" Beetee shouts in distress. He tries to approach, but Finnick, now hopping on one foot, recoils. "Finnick, I'm sorry, it was an accident—"

"I know, I know! It's fine, it's all right, just—" Finnick's sentence dissolves into yet another round of swearing and he limps over to the wall, leaning against it as he tries to examine his foot. "How heavy_ is_ that thing?"

"I…I don't know," Beetee stammers, his face crimson. "Finnick, I'm sorry—"

He continues to babble out apologies, while Finnick tries to mollify him between his own groans of pain and spluttered expletives, and before long, their noise attracts someone residing in one of the neighboring compartments. "What the hell is going on?" yells a tall, well-muscled fellow with a deep tan.

Silence follows as Beetee and Finnick look to one another. The latter breaks it. "He ran over my foot."

"_Accidentally_," Beetee hastens to add. "And I'm very, very sorry for it, Finnick, as I am for disturbing you, er—"

"Dalton," the man says.

"—Dalton," says Beetee. "But I really need to get going, I have a meeting to attend…"

"In Command?" asks Finnick, slowly resting his weight on his injured foot. Beetee, in slight surprise, nods. "That's where I'm going. Haymitch asked me earlier, it just, uh…" He taps his temple. "Slipped my mind."

Beetee lifts an eyebrow. Why would Haymitch Abernathy be assembling a meeting in Command? As far as Beetee knows, the man is still all but incapacitated from the many detoxification treatments he underwent upon entering the strictly alcohol-free 13. And even if he is fully functional once more, that doesn't explain what business he plans to conduct in Command. But all Beetee says is, "Well, if that's the case, we'd best get going."

Finnick nods and—quite possibly to prevent another accident—pushes Beetee's chair as they start in that direction. On a whim, Dalton follows. The trio is, as Beetee predicted, the last to arrive. Haymitch stands at the front of the room; as soon as the door closes and they're seated, he begins.

"I'd like to thank you all for coming," he says in as polite a voice as Beetee has ever heard him use. As he continues his preliminary greeting, Beetee takes in his appearance. His hair is lank and unkempt, and though once rather portly, he's now so thin that his face appears gaunt. His skin is sallow and seems to hang limply from his frame. Beetee can't say he and Haymitch are friends, but he can't help feel a twinge of pity for him.

Once the formalities are covered, Haymitch shows the group a tape of the propo Katniss filmed after she left Beetee and Gale in Special Weaponry yesterday. In all honesty, Beetee isn't sure what to expect. A slightly less awkward version of the girl interviewed in the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games? A warrior-like incarnation of the bride-to-be from the Seventy-fifth? It certainly isn't what he sees instead: a dark, brooding woman with heavy eyes, a scowl on her lips, and smoke curling around her sculpted form. Beautiful. Shadowed. A goddess born of fire and ready to set the world ablaze. Yet, as pleasing to the eye and powerful as she appears, not Katniss. Especially not with her mechanical limbs and disjointed voice. Beetee averts his eyes from the screen and meets Gale's gaze from across the room. Gale gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head to indicate his displeasure, and Beetee merely shrugs; he foresaw this.

The lights, dimmed to aid in the viewing of the clip, brighten again. Haymitch addresses the group once more. "All right. Would anyone like to argue that this is of use to us in winning the war?"

Naturally, the only response is silence.

"That saves time," says Haymitch. "So, let's all be quiet for a minute. I want everyone to think of one incident where Katniss Everdeen genuinely moved you. Not where you were jealous of her hairstyle, or her dress went up in flames or she made a halfway decent shot with an arrow. Not where Peeta was making you like her. I want to hear one moment where she made you feel something real."

Again, quiet fills the room, long and awkward. It stretches to unendurable proportions until, at last, a dark-haired girl of perhaps sixteen speaks up. "When she volunteered to take Prim's place at the reaping. Because I'm sure she thought she was going to die."

Haymitch gives a nod of approval. "Good," he tells her. "Excellent example." With a purple marker, he scrawls this onto a notepad, repeating it to himself in a mutter as he does. When he's finished, he looks up again. "Somebody else."

"When she sang the song," says a graying commander that Beetee recognizes as one of Coin's most trusted. Boggs is his name. "While the little girl died."

Oh, yes. Beetee remembers quite clearly: Little Rue, a victim of Katniss's first Games, from District 11. He gives a somber nod at Boggs's words, as does Haymitch. "Who didn't get choked up at that, right?" says Haymitch as he notes this.

"I cried when she drugged Peeta so she could go get him medicine and when she kissed him goodbye!" cries a brunette woman; one of Katniss's prep team members, Beetee decides, given her pea-green skin. She covers her mouth with both hands after this proclamation, as if expecting rebuff, but Haymitch's response is a satisfied nod.

"Oh, yeah. Drugs Peeta to save his life," he says, penning it down. "Very nice."

The others, seeming to have gained confidence based on the outbursts of their peers, begin to chime in as well, voices overlapping as they say their pieces. "When she took on the girl from Eleven as her ally," says Dalton.

"And tried to carry Mags," Finnick adds softly.

"Or when she held Chaff's hand on interview night," Beetee says himself.

More voices are added to the din, more moments taken into account. Katniss spoon-feeding Peeta when he was too weak to sit up. Thanking District 11 for her sponsor gift of bread. Calling Peeta's name in the arena. Healing Finnick after their encounter with the poisonous fog. Whispering goodbye to Wiress, Beetee's closest friend, after her murder. His throat constricts at the memory of her. Wiress, small and pale, floating on her back in the sea. Her dark, bloodstained hair forming a halo around her head. The golden wire that he asked her to clean clasped tightly in her hands. Beetee instinctively tries to twist that wire around his fingers, a habit he picked up directly after her death, but his hands are empty, and it'd be rude to ask Finnick to share his rope. Instead, he stares resolutely forward, determined to keep the emotion off his face. To keep from crying, or screaming, or cursing. To keep his thoughts in his own head, the only place he knows that they're safe.

Finally, Haymitch holds up the notepad now covered in purple writing. "So, the question is," he says, "what do all of these have in common?"

"They were Katniss's," Gale murmurs. "No one told her what to do or say."

"Unscripted, yes!" Beetee says. He leans toward Katniss to briefly cover her hand with his own, smiling amiably at her. "So we should just leave you alone, right?"

Most of the group laughs, though humor wasn't Beetee's intent. Gale doesn't, though. Instead, he gives Beetee a slight smile and a small nod of approval, which Beetee discreetly returns.

"Well, that's all very nice," snaps Plutarch's assistant, Fulvia Cardew, in reply, "but not very helpful. Unfortunately, her opportunities for being wonderful are rather limited here in Thirteen. So unless you're suggesting we toss her into the middle of combat—"

"That's exactly what I'm suggesting," Haymitch interrupts with a nod. "Put her out in the field and just keep the cameras rolling."

"But people think she's pregnant," says Gale.

Some, Beetee included, react in surprise; up until now, he'd been unaware that the baby Peeta mentioned during his Quarter Quell interview was not real. It makes sense, though, as Beetee considers it, as he takes into account her attraction to Gale, to whom she bears no relation, lack of symptoms, and the ever-manipulable audience.

Plutarch has an easy fix for the issue. "We'll spread the word that she lost the baby from the electrical shock in the arena. Very sad. Very unfortunate," he says.

Despite this, protests continue to arise, particularly from those of District 13. Potential problems such as Katniss's jeopardized safety, and the expense of transportation to the districts, and the chance that being filmed might continue to hinder her performance; while Beetee understands their concern, he can't help but wonder, _Aren't we at war here?_

"Every time we coach her or give her lines, the best we can hope for is okay," Haymitch insists. "It has to come from her. That's what people are responding to."

"Even if we're careful, we can't guarantee her safety," says Boggs. "She'll be a target for every—"

"I want to go," Katniss interrupts. Beetee turns to her. Katniss's face is determined, yet impassive; she's clearly set on Haymitch's proposition and has little patience for the others' objections. "I'm no help to the rebels here."

"And if you're killed?" asks Coin.

"Make sure you get some footage," she replies. "You can use that, anyway."

The president sighs. "Fine. But let's take it one step at a time. Find the least dangerous situation that can evoke some spontaneity in you." She pauses to view the illuminated maps of various rebel squadrons. When she makes her decision, she relays it to Boggs. Katniss, accompanied by a choice guard, will be taken into District 8 this afternoon. A camera crew will film her as she surveys the wreckage from this morning's bombing. Haymitch will go along as well, though he will be airborne rather than on the ground, and will be connected to Katniss through an earpiece. Coin's gray eyes scan the room as her words are taken in. "Does anyone have any other comments?"

"Wash her face," says Dalton. "She's still a girl and you made her look thirty-five. Feels wrong. Like something the Capitol would do."

There's a collective nod of assent, and the meeting is adjourned. Beetee files out with the majority, trying to avoid feet as he wheels past. After a moment or two, a mildly disconcerted Gale joins him. Beetee considers asking what bothers him, but decides against it. "I take it you'll be accompanying Katniss?" he asks instead. "For the propo?"

"Yeah," says Gale.

"Then come with me."

Gale obeys without protest. Soon, the two are in one of 13's multi-directional elevators. There's no small talk as they descend to Special Defense, nor is there when they arrive on the appropriate floor and Beetee again beckons Gale to follow. He leads him through the maze of workrooms until they reach Special Weaponry, where Gale finally asks, "What are you doing?"

"Getting your bow and arrows," Beetee answers, though most of his attention is on the wall of archery weapons as he searches for the correct one. Gale finds it before he does. As he hefts the bow onto his shoulder, Beetee collects one of the three-cylindered sheaths of arrows he prepared beforehand and approaches to strap it to Gale's back. However, he immediately realizes that Gale's height poses a problem. Beetee clears his throat to gain his attention. "Um…could you…?"

Gale's head tilts in confusion, but recognition lights in his eyes after a moment. "Oh. Oh, yeah, sure," he says, and kneels. Beetee secures the quiver to his back.

"Sorry," he says. "It's just…well, you're kind of tall."

Gale laughs. "So I've heard."

"Where I come from, most people are about my height," Beetee continues. "Turn, please?" Gale does so, and Beetee straightens the strap that crosses his chest. "My height when I'm standing, I mean. In District Three, you're considered tall if you surpass five-seven, and then we have you…you're, what, six feet tall? Six-one?"

Again, Gale chuckles. It's a nice sound, one that Beetee doubts Gale makes too often nowadays. "I don't know. Haven't been measured in a while. Somewhere around six-two, six-three."

"You see? You're a giant," Beetee says. Gale smiles, though his expression turns quizzical when Beetee moves his attention to his shirt collar. Meticulously, Beetee straightens it, then brushes Gale's hair off his forehead. "Perfect," he says. Gale rises to his full height once more. Beetee's voice turns from friendly to businesslike. "Now, the quiver on your back contains three kinds of arrows. Left side is fire. Right side, explosive. And center is regular. I don't anticipate that you'll need them, but better safe than sorry."

"Got it," says Gale. "So...I'll go find Boggs. Find out where to go for the propo." Beetee nods. "Guess I'll see you later?"

"Yes," Beetee says. "I'll see you later." As Gale exits, however, a thought occurs to Beetee and he calls him back. Gale turns, lifting an eyebrow. "Be careful, will you?"

A smirk turns his lips up at the corners, but behind the arrogance, there's a distinct note of sincerity. "I'm always careful," Gale replies.

Somehow, Beetee knows that this isn't the case,

After a moment, he returns to his workroom and tinkers uninterrupted for the next hour. Then, footsteps make him look up. "Hey," says Finnick as he joins Beetee on the bench.

Beetee raises an eyebrow. "Hello. Um...what are you doing here, if I might ask?"

"Katniss told me you have something for me," Finnick says. He rocks back and forth on his heels, a mannerism Beetee often displays as well. "A trident?"

Finnick's eyes are alight for what Beetee suspects is the first time since his Annie, his lover, and Johanna, his best friend, were kidnapped after the Quarter Quell. Beetee knows that imagining what the Capitol is doing to them has made this a very difficult month for Finnick, so he's pleased to see him begin to function somewhat normally again.

"Katniss told you correctly," Beetee says. "I do indeed. It isn't quite finished yet, but perhaps you'd like to see what I have so far?"

Finnick nods. Beetee opens the long, silver case that sits on the worktable and smiles as Finnick caresses the prongs of the trident with his fingers. "I've yet to complete the cuff that goes with it," says Beetee. "My goal is to attach a button that you can press to make the trident return to you automatically. That's my biggest challenge. But in time I ought to finish it as well, especially now that I have Gale to help me."

"Gale?" Finnick repeats. Beetee nods.

"Yes, Gale. You know, Katniss's…" He drifts off uncertainly. What _is _Gale to Katniss? "Friend," Beetee finally says, though he's sure the term doesn't do their relationship justice. "Katniss's friend."

"Gale Hawthorne?" asks Finnick.

"Yes."

Finnick falls silent for a moment. Just as Beetee is about to question it, Finnick says, "Kind of an odd match, don't you think?"

"Gale and Katniss?"

"No, Gale and you." Beetee lifts his eyebrows again, and Finnick elaborates. "You know...well...I just didn't think you liked that kind of person. I mean...well, you've met him. He can be kind of a brute."

"So can you. So can I." Beetee shrugs. "He has talent, Finnick. One of the best minds I've encountered in years. He's definitely willing to help the cause. I trust him."

"You've just met him."

"My judgment says to trust him. And I have remarkably good judgment," Beetee says simply. Either he's convinced of the fact or has realized Beetee is too obstinate to be dissuaded, because Finnick doesn't push the subject further. Shortly thereafter, he's called to Command and departs accordingly. Beetee follows suit. _This can't be anything good_, he thinks, but he doesn't voice this aloud.


End file.
